


you could be making worse decisions, i guess?

by punkwixes (kitahart)



Series: decaytown dot tumblr dot com [4]
Category: Changeling: The Lost, Original Work
Genre: Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-10-22 15:27:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17665148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitahart/pseuds/punkwixes
Summary: two tops Fight, but like, not really.





	you could be making worse decisions, i guess?

**Author's Note:**

> look, i dunno what you want from me.

_Hey, dumbass,_ reads the message blinking on your screen.

Okay, yeah, you delete that one without looking up, keeping your eyes focused half on the bright screen in front of you and half on the sidewalk so you don’t trip. You’re considering the merits of, _Okay, look, asshole,_ when Kat stops short, like, two inches from your face, and you run into her.

“Sorry,” she says sheepishly. “Stoplight.” You look up and, yeah, you're at the intersection before Lewis’s place.

“Why the fuck do we need those? Like, we don't have traffic here _.”_ Lewis opens his mouth like he's gonna have some well-educated intellectual response, so you gotta be like, “I’m just _saying,_ I don't wanna know for real.”

“Who are you texting?” Jenny asks. “Like, we’re all right here.”

“I have friends besides you guys!” you insist. Then, after a moment, you add, “It’s just Ralphie. I just wanted to – I don't know – Update him. On how things went.”

_He shouldn't be scared any longer than he has to,_ you don't say, because that's not a concern you've ever had, about anyone.

“Dude, don’t you, like, live with him?”

“I don't know! He’s nocturnal! Only God knows where the fuck he is!” Lewis bristles a bit and you briefly consider the merits of pretending to be religious in order to piss him off (many) versus the potential downfalls (dude is smarter than you and has definitely hung around enough to know that you don't exactly follow the word of God, or Jesus, or whatever).

Truth to be told, you haven't seen much of Ralphie these days. You guess that he's still recovering from the… withdrawal thing? You hear him crunching around in the kitchen at 3am and, like, _that’s_ fine. You think he probably sleeps a lot, although a sleeping Ralphie, a dead Ralphie, and a Ralphie who’s out shoplifting all sound the same.

Your phone buzzes, and your immediate thought is, _Did that fucker text me before I got the chance to insult him?_ But the notification on your screen is from an unknown number, actually, which, you don't actually give out your number to too many people? When dudes hit on you at work, you give them a fake phone line that automatically sends pictures of a banana being sliced by a knife, and –

Oh. Oh, cool, okay. 

It’s Hatchet. _Fuck._

You definitely say that last part out loud and Kat looks at you, alarmed, and you take a stumbling step backwards as you skim Hatchet’s message. 

“Uh, I – there's a thing, I just – Hatchet texted me? So I, I – I gotta go!”

Kat waves at you. “Have fun!”

 

You’d meant to play it cool and just text back, like, _On my way,_ or something, but you actually do have to ask for directions, because where the fuck are you going anyway? And then you gotta be like _hey whats up im at your creepyass gate where do i go from here,_ because Google Maps keeps trying to steer you into a lake and you're not like, super familiar with this side of town, but you're pretty sure there isn't actually a lake here.

You manage to make your way back underground without running into Mama O or – are there any other vampires just like, chilling out here? You didn't ask, and you don't wanna know. Anyways, Hatchet just sort of has a room, which is… weird.

“I thought vampires slept in caskets,” is the first thing you say when you walk through the door.

“Disappointed?” she asks, raising one eyebrow. Her room is… kinda boring, honestly. There's, like, a bed with a regular blue blanket over it, and some kinda dresser situation happening in the corner. A lamp on the bedside table provides a dim glow, but other than that the room is cast into shadow.

“I was expecting a little more… I dunno, velvet-lined glamour?”

“It’s uncomfortable,” she says, deadpan.

“Cool.” You brush past her ( _what the fuck she's built like a refrigerator how 2 cop that look??)_ and flop down on the edge of her bed, kicking your feet a little. If she has a problem with that – well, that's her deal. “I mean, like, I sleep on a mattress on the floor, so I can't judge.”

“Why,” Hatchet demands.

“I – There's a twelve-year-old living in what used to be bedroom? Actually, I think he's fourteen now. Fuck. Um.” You are _so_ not making eye contact right now. “Actually, I would give just about anything to _not_ think about that fucked-up situation right now, so. Yeah.”

 

“What do you want to think about, then?” She’s still learning in the doorway, eyes half-lidded.

_You,_ you wanna say, but that is the most fucking stupid, cheesy – you’re not gonna say that thing.

You bite the bullet instead. “So how’d you get your scars? Like, was it when you died? Is that how vampires dying work? Or is it ‘cause you can’t be killed? Did we ever really answer the, like, philosophical question of whether or not you're dead?”

Hatchet laughs, the sound catching low in her throat, and like. _Okay_. “That’s a little personal, don’t you think?”

“I dunno, talking about trauma shit is usually, like, second-date material for me.” You've never _had_ a second date. Most dudes don't last that long.

“I seem to recall you offering to, ah – _‘show me yours’_ first.”

“Did I say that? I don't think I said that.” Maybe you said that. Whatever. “I mean – whatever floats your boat, my dude. I’m an open book. It’s all right here.” You spread your arms wide. You’d worn your favorite long-sleeved crop top with the intention of _fucking a vampire_ tonight, and in the name of transparency, you roll up the cuffs.

Hatchet’s brow furrows. You were expecting – interest, maybe. That's what you're always hoping for; someone to go, _hey, what the fuck happened to you,_ so you can be like, _lemme tell you about that one time I fucked up a bunch of dogs real good._

Nobody ever asks. It sucks.

Pity, disgust – you get that, too, mostly from other changelings. Sometimes you want to scream, like – your body isn't any of their business, none of it, and it's not like you did this for shits and giggles – it’s your fucking _right_ , and you hate it too.

Hatchet just looks… blank.

There's a second, and then it hits you like a punch to the stomach, this dull ache that sends chills through your entire body, like – it feels like – the first time He’d carved you open. Pinned down and helpless, you hadn't felt the pain, just the cold. Just His claws, long and pointed and dripping with your blood as he licked them clean, one by one.

“You can't see them,” you say, voice hoarse. Your throat is tight. It hurts to talk.

“No, do you – oh.” Hatchet steps closer to you, head tilted. “This is – a changeling thing?”

“Yeah.” You stare down at your lap, at your folded hands. You suddenly feel very, very delicate. “Yeah, it’s – uh. Did we ever talk to you about masks?”

“That's what you look like,” she says. The mattress dips down, and she's sitting next to you, a respectable distance away. “What, uh. The part of your appearance that we see.”

“Yeah, and mien’s what we really look like, under the – whatever.” You take a shaky breath, eyes stinging.

“You have scars, and they're part of your mien, but not your mask,” Hatchet summarizes. “So we – vampires – can’t see them.”

“Yeah. It’s – I don't, I don't know, I thought – I _need –_ ” You're not going to cry. You're _not._ “This is stupid.”

“They meant something to you,” Hatchet says. “That's not stupid.”

There are indents on your palms from where you've been clenching your fists so tightly. “I,” you say, and then the words just keep tumbling out.

“It was about – well, that was never the point, but – scars, keeping them, showing them off, that was like… control, you know? I didn't have as – as much agency as I’d have liked in how I got them, so it was like – I get to control how people see me. I get to control the fact that they're like, _woah, she's super fucked up_ , and.” Your hands are still shaking, but you're not afraid anymore. “And that's just one more thing that He took from me, in the end.” 

If – _If_ you pinned Him down like a struggling butterfly, one hand on his shoulder, your knee pressed to his chest, _don’t move or I’ll make it hurt worse –_ if you plunged your hand through his sternum, where a heart should lie, what would be inside? Blood would be satisfying, but so would be a handful of crumbling rot that turns to dust inside your fist, trickling through your fingers.

Abstractly, you think you want to find out.

“Where,” Hatchet says, and it takes you a moment to realize that she's asking a question.

“Where are my – oh.” Realization dawns on you. “Do you mind if I, uh…”

Hatchet nods. Her wrist is cold when you grab it, and you're like, _oh, right, she’s a vampire._ Ice trickles through your stomach where you place her hand, and you're trying so fucking hard not to squirm or pull away.

“It, uh, it starts here –” you start to say, guiding her fingertips towards the bottom of your ribcage. You know the indentations here by heart, but Hatchet – _flinches_ when she touches them, pulls her hand away before putting it back, resting it perfectly where you’d guided her.

“What the _fuck,”_ she says. Then: “I can feel them. It's like – they're like – down, and then –” She trails her hand down your stomach, down and to the right, three fingers coming to fit in each of the lines carved into your stomach.

“Oh. That's. That's new,” you say. You are trying to sit so very, _very_ still right now that your entire body vibrates with it. “I wonder if that's, like, a thing? That, maybe other changelings would be interested in. Like, for most people – I mean, my horns don’t register at all, right? You could try to touch ‘em and your hand just goes right through, and that’s how it’s supposed to work, usually, but – is it just me? ‘Cause I don't know any other changelings with scars that aren't part of their mask so I’m kind of a sample size of one, y’know?” And then there's the part where Hatchet is a vampire, so _ideally_ you’d want a human to see if they could feel your scars, because of, like, data or whatever. God _damn_ , Lewis is rubbing off on you.

Hatchet is just _looking_ at you, like, _are you done yet?_ Only she doesn't say that at all, just keeps touching the tips of her fingers to each of your scars (three fingers, each a finger-width apart; you’ve counted), and says, slowly, voice measured, “Sunny, how did this happen?”

Here's the thing: you don't lie often.

You don't _need_ to. If you want something, you get it, either via manipulation or just – the things you want aren't, like, ridiculous. You don't want what you can't have, like, you can't talk your way out of _I hate myself and I wanna die_ so you just, like, live with it. Plus, you're good enough – well. _Good enough_ implies skill. You’re _hot_ enough that manipulation comes naturally, and you don't even need to lie to get what you want. It’s just like, _look, I want this thing, here are the reasons I want it, why shouldn't you want to help me get it?_

The people who aren't fooled by manipulation (Terry, Lewis, probably the rest of your motley if you ever tried to pull one over on them) are aware enough that you can't lie to them, either. Not that you think about it often, it's just – you probably couldn't, even if you wanted to. 

And, sure, you've got the obvious lies. Hell, you’d _prepared_ for questions like this with, like – you wanna tell some big, dumb story about _how this happened._ You want to tell the story and rewrite it and make it so you won, so that you always won, so that Arcadia and what happened after would just be – gone.

You want to be proud. You want to erase the scars from your skin. You don't think that there can ever be a duality.

There's a semi-truth in there, and you're no stranger to those; you _could_ tell Hatchet about your escape, and fighting off His dogs, and then how the wounds had opened after, but –

“It’s like – claws,” Hatchet says, mindless of your hesitation. She keeps her fingers spaced apart, the width of each of your scars, keeps flexing her hand _like_ –

“My keeper, the first time I tried to escape,” you say, and then: “Did I – Did _any_ of us tell you about the – in Arcadia, that –” Deep breath. Start over. “Do you know we got like this? What happened to us?”

“I can infer.”

“It’s not – I don't –” You stumble over the words. “I – He. I think I tried to escape, and, well, it obviously didn't work, so He _motivated_ me to not try again.” Deep breaths. “It hurt a lot, I think.”

“You _think?_ ”

“What he took, it was – memories, I think. After that, it was easier.” You take a deep breath. “Actually, I don't wanna think about this anymore.”

“Alright,” Hatchet says. “What _do_ you want to think about then?”

You lean in and kiss her. 

It’s the easiest thing in the world. She’s still for a moment, so still that at first you pull away like, _oh fuck she’s not into it,_ draw back in hesitation. You still can't read her face; she’s just _looking_ at you, eyes dark, expression guarded, like she’s she’s trying to read something in yours.

And then _she_ kisses _you._ So, like, yeah, it’s good, and you respond favorably, pushing her back against the headboard of the bed, and she shakes her head, pulling herself free.

“Not exactly my style,” she says, pushing your hand aside from where it had been resting on her upper thigh as you leveraged your weight on top of her. “Let me – Lemme do this for. you, okay?”

“Okay,” you say. Is that okay? It’s probably okay. “I mean, I’m, like, a top, so.”

“So…?”

“I’ve also never. You know. Girls, I haven’t really, ever –”

“Are you honestly trying to tell me that you've never fucked a girl before.”

“Well. Yeah,” you say. “I mean, I kissed this girl once, but only because a dude thought it was, like, super hot.” Did you feel bad about that one in the moment? No. Do you feel a hint of remorse about it now? _Fuck_ yeah.

“Well,” Hatchet says after a long moment. “I guess you’re having a learning experience, then.”

Hatchet’s lips are cold, way colder than you expected her to be, and your surprise must still show, because she murmurs, “This okay?”

“I mean, yeah,” you say, a little breathlessly. You’re, like, making out, so you figured that touching her scars is pretty much fair game, and you’re rubbing your thumb back and forth over a deep divot in her bicep. “No heartbeat.”

“Hmm?”

“You don't have a heartbeat, here –” You kiss the spot where her jawline meets her neck, where, if she were alive, her pulse would be throbbing. “I just keep forgetting that you're dead? Or a vampire, I guess. I don't think that we ever came to a conclusion on that –”

“I have,” Hatchet says, “A really good idea for you.”

“Shoot,” you say. 

“Have you considered, maybe. Not thinking as much.”

“Never,” you say lightly, or as lightly as you can manage, given the circumstances. “Fuck you.”

The hand that had been resting on your stomach slides under your shirt, and Hatchet makes a soft sound against your mouth at what you assume is the fact that you're not wearing a bra, at the same time that you pull away again and say, “Nope. No. Absolutely not.”

You're a mess and you know it, sitting back on your calves and brushing hair out of your flushed face like you absolutely didn't freak out outta nowhere, but Hatchet just regards you with that same expression.

“No to being touched?” she asks. “Or to me… touching your chest?”

“The latter,” you say. “Um. Just. Don’t? In general.”

“Got it,” she says. “Are there any other, uh. Boundaries I should know of.”

“No,” you say. “Yes. Maybe. Nothing that like – I don't know.”

“Okay.”

“If you touch my neck without warning I’ll probably have a, uh. Violent reaction. And maybe no biting. Probably.”

“Noted,” Hatchet says.

“I mean, maybe a little biting? Just as long as you warn me. And don't break the skin. Or like, maybe a little blood is fine, as long as you warn me.”

Hatchet draws her hand back, and you think of the way Lewis examines you – birdlike, curious, pitying.“So do you want me to fuck you or not,” she finally says. “Because you seem to be having an – Well. Having some anxiety here, and if you'd rather, we can just talk.”

“No!” you say. “I mean, yes! I mean – I mean to say that I want this. _Let_ me want this.” She keeps looking at you, head cocked to the side, and you say, “Please,” under your breath, and she finally, _finally_ moves in to kiss you again. 

Hatchet isn't warm, but her touch doesn't feel dead either, so you're thinking, _at least we solved that one,_ and not _oh my god what are you doing_ as she takes her _time_ touching you. One hand slides down your stomach, gently brushing over the deepest scars, and then pauses for permission before unbuttoning your pants. Her fingertips glide over your arm, catching on the scars there, and you – feel her pause, tensing a little, but all she does is gently run the pads of her fingers back over your forearm, feather-light, tracing the pattern of scars there and then drawing her attention back to you, all of you. 

You're nearly embarrassed at how desperate you are, because like – look, okay, it's been a _long_ time since you've been touched like this, and your bedroom is _kind of also_ the living room, so Hatchet’s out here teasing you through your underwear and you have to bite your lip to keep the needy whine from rising in your throat.

_Finally_ she pulls the fabric aside and ghosts her thumb over your clit and you're trying _so hard_ to be still, but you can't help the fact that your hips keep jerking up into her touch, tiny motions that you try your best to hold back. She tests your entrance with two slick fingers and you gasp a little, covering your mouth with your hand and biting down so as to not make any further sound.

Hatchet pulls your hand away, not unkindly, and says, “I hardly think that's necessary”, and you're like, _yeah, okay, fine_ , but you bury your face in her shoulder to muffle your vocalizations anyways. Her voice is muffled too, the distant ringing in your ears making everything a little fuzzy as she asks, “This okay?” before sliding a finger inside you. You think you manage something like _yeah sure that's super great,_ only a lot less coherent. Your teeth find a familiar groove in your lip, a faint metallic taste on your tongue as she rubs circles over your clit.

You rock forward on her hand, grinding down on her fingers, and she slides her free hand up your stomach, over the scars (you shudder a little) before coming to rest just under your jaw. She tilts your head forward as she kisses you, her teeth catching ever-so-slightly on your bottom lip. The copper tang of blood floods your mouth as you come, clenching around her hand. She rubs you through the aftershocks, and you're still shaking and breathing hard as she draws back.

“Okay,” you say once you've caught your breath, pushing your bangs out of your flushed forehead. “I don't – That was… good, I just never, um – Thanks?” You manage awkwardly, still trying to catch your breath. 

Hatchet laughs, and, like, at least _someone_ is getting something out of your embarrassment. “You're bleeding,” she says with a touch of concern. “Did I do that?”

You touch your bottom lip with two fingers; they come away sticky and red. “Huh. Maybe?”

Hatchet brings her thumb to your face, smears the blood away, and – is this a horny vampire thing, or, like, a normal person thing? You're not entirely sure. “Didn't mean to, for what that’s worth.”

You shrug. “No, it's fine. I kinda liked it – uh. The biting part. For what _that's_ worth.”

“Hm.” Hatchet has that look like she's _considering_ you again, and you study her back, probing the cut in your lip with your tongue. _Copper and metal, still._ Something to consider, at least. 


End file.
